by Ellery Adams
“You’d be just fine, sir,” Max replied affably.
Dean laughed. “You’re probably right.” There was a pause in which Dean likely consumed several handfuls of the snack mix. “I saw the most interesting movie trailer during my flight down,” he said next. “I think Blake’s little girlfriend was the star. Pretty little thing, though I prefer my women to have more curves and more . . . experience. You seen her TV show? That girl is going places.”
Their talk ventured into the realm of movies and television and Olivia no longer bothered to listen in.
Rawlings glanced at his watch. “I shouldn’t keep you. I know you have dinner plans.” He pushed his empty glass away but made no move to stand. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you, but it never seemed to be the right time.”
Olivia’s heart drummed. Was the chief going to make a romantic overture? Or inquire about her painful past? She wrapped her long, elegant fingers around her tumbler and nodded in encouragement.
“I value your opinion, Olivia, and before I made a fool of myself in front of your writer friends I wanted to see whether your critique group would welcome another member.” He cleared his throat. “Meaning me, of course.”
This was hardly the question Olivia had expected. Relieved, she let forth a rare giggle. “But we’re the Bayside Book Writers, Chief, ah, Sawyer. Don’t you write poetry?”
The chief’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I read many genres, including poetry, but I started penning a mystery a few years ago and I’d love to bring it out of the drawer and see what the group thinks of the first few chapters.”
Olivia believed Rawlings would make an excellent addition to their group. After all, with Camden gone, Harris was the only remaining male. Besides, Olivia was particularly fond of the mystery genre. She didn’t enjoy them as much as historical fiction, but they ranked a close second. “I don’t see why not,” she replied. “I’ll run it by them prior to this Saturday’s meeting.”
“Good.” Rawlings stood up and gave her a little bow. “Of course, if I am invited to join, I’d prefer to be there as a civilian. Just another struggling writer type. I won’t even bring a gun.”
“That’s fine.” Olivia smiled. “If the need arises, you can borrow mine.”
Chapter 11
It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insuffecient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.
—JANE AUSTEN
Two days later, Jethro Bragg was still being held in a county cell. The townsfolk vacillated between quietly believing in the local man’s guilt and complaining vociferously that the police had arrested Jethro in an act of discrimination against fishermen.
“The cops always point the finger at one of us when somethin’s wrong!” Olivia heard a fisherman call to another at the Exxon station.
The second man shook his head in disgust. “Whoever killed that queer was a yellow belly. He weren’t one of us. We go at it face-to-face-look our enemy in the eye when we take him down. It ain’t our way to creep up on a man like that.”
Olivia considered this exchange. The fishermen were right. The killer must have wanted to surprise Camden, to rob him of his life with stealth and quickness. Yet there was an element of cowardice to the murder that wasn’t in sync with Jethro Bragg’s character. She’d seen him at the meeting. He’d spoken his piece against the new development and wore his heart on his sleeve while doing so. He was a former soldier and proud of his heritage—hardly the type of man to attack an unarmed stranger in the dark.
“No, the real killer wanted to remain anonymous to his victim, yet he wanted to get public attention by writing the poem,” she mused as she filled the Rover’s tank. “A person of contradictions.” Inside the car, she turned to Haviland. “Is Jethro Bragg that complex? I don’t think so. They’ve got the wrong man, Captain.”
Haviland stuck his head out the window and watched the fishermen drive off in nearly identical Ford pickups. He let loose several short barks, a sign of agreement.
Olivia was just offering Haviland an organic dog treat when her phone rang. It was Cosmo.
“I can’t stay here another day!” he exclaimed into the phone.
“What’s happened?” Olivia shoved the treat bag inside the center console.
“Nothing! Nothing besides the fact that my best friend in the world is dead and gone! Gone!” he shouted. Olivia could hear a dry sob through the phone. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just starting to sink in. I woke up in a strange bed with the sun pouring in through the windows and the sound of birds twittering outside and I . . . can’t . . . stand . . . it another second! I need car horns and smog, people speaking Spanish, and my own pillows. I want to go home!” He exhaled loudly. “There. I’ve said it. I feel like the biggest heel, but I want to go home now.”
Olivia understood. She couldn’t imagine two places more opposite in nature than the city of Los Angeles and the town of Oyster Bay. “Of course you do. There’s nothing wrong with your wanting to leave this place. Go home if you want to. It doesn’t mean you loved Camden any less if you do. How can I help?”
“You are an angel.” Cosmo began to cry. “I want to take Cam with me, so I’ve decided to have him cremated. I just can’t leave him here, Olivia. I can see letting him drift away on a wave in the Pacific, someplace nice like Carmel or Malibu, but not in this ocean! This isn’t his home either.”
“Has the chief released Camden’s body?” Olivia inquired gently.
Another sniff. “I met with Rawlings first thing this morning. They checked him ... his body over carefully, but there were no clues. Apparently the monster who killed him wore gloves and a mask. There are no fibers or fingerprints or any of that stuff you see on those TV crime shows.” His voice broke. “Poor Cam must have been so scared to see that creature rise out of the dark. What was he doing in that alley? Stupid, darling Cam! Look what you’ve done to us!”
Olivia could hear Cosmo banging on something. “Cosmo!” she shouted, reeling him back into their conversation. “What about the killer’s handwriting? Is it being analyzed?”
After a pause, Cosmo answered. “Yes. Photos were sent to some state lab. It’ll take weeks. At least that’s what Rawlings told me.”
Unable to think of what other information the chief might have volunteered to Cosmo, Olivia said, “Would you like me to help with the arrangements? I know Annie took you to the funeral home, but do you need someone to stand beside you during the cremation?” She hoped he’d refuse her offer. She couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less than bear witness to Camden’s funeral pyre.
Cosmo didn’t answer immediately.
“I need to do this by myself,” he finally declared. “It’s not that I don’t want you there, it’s just that this act is the last thing I have of him that’s all mine. And then I’m booking a flight out of here. I know that sounds cold, but they have a man in custody and I can’t do anything else for Cam. I wanted to take in everything about this town because it’s where I lost him, but now I’ve seen it and I’m ready to go.”
“I understand. In fact, I’ll drive you to the airport.” She hesitated. “And know that I won’t forget about Camden or his case, Cosmo. I promise you that.”
“I know.” His voice grew stronger. “That’s why I feel free to leave.”
Cosmo departed later that same day. He tearfully hugged Annie good-bye and kissed Roy on the cheek after the older man had loaded Cosmo’s garment bag and newly purchased souvenir duffel bag into Olivia’s car. Atlas was on his knees spreading pine straw in one of the perennial beds, but he put down his tools and stood up in order to properly wave good-bye as the Rover drove away from the inn.
Opening his window, Cosmo yelled, “Go get ’em, tiger!”
Olivia watched Atlas’s figure recede in her rearview mirror. “What was that about?”
“He’s interviewing with Talbot Pro
perties today. Roy’s been keeping him plenty busy, but Atlas would rather work building new houses.” Although Cosmo looked washed out and weary, he managed a thin smile. “With all those shirt-less men in tight jeans, who wouldn’t?” He patted the top of the cardboard box containing Camden’s ashes. “Remember those two who redid our bathroom, darling? Simply gorgeous! Beautiful, strapping Italians in white overalls.” He glanced out the window, remembering, and his face lost some of its drawn look. “Cam and I didn’t want to leave the apartment for a second! I think we ate out of cans for three days until we finally had to go out for more coffee. One cannot survive without coffee, no matter how magnificent the asses on the men bending over your tub are!”
Laughing, Olivia felt a lightness course through her. She was suddenly certain that Cosmo would recover from this blow.
Losing Camden would scar him, change him, and haunt him, but he was capable of living a full and colorful life despite his lover’s violent death. The realization comforted Olivia.
As though sensing her thoughts, Cosmo reached over and squeezed her arm. “How long did it take you to get over your parents’ death? I know you’ve never brought it up, but Annie told me they died within a few years of one another. Poor you.”
Olivia suppressed a surge of anger over being the source of idle gossip once again. After all, it was almost a given that Annie would tell Cosmo about Olivia’s past. Perhaps the innkeeper hoped to let the young man know he wasn’t alone in his grief. Perhaps Cosmo wanted to get a more complete picture of the woman who’d recently befriended his lover. Either way, Olivia knew she needed to stop being so prickly when asked about her personal history.
“My mother left our house in order to pick up my birthday present during the onset of a hurricane,” Olivia began. “She’d left it at the library—that’s where she worked. After she’d gotten it from her office and returned to the car, a strong gust of wind gave a rotting telephone pole a fierce push.” She swallowed. It never grew any easier to talk about the next part. “It fell, smashing right through the windshield. They say she probably didn’t even know what hit her. Her death was instantaneous. I turned seven the next day.”
Cosmo covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh! That’s horrible!” He tightened his hold on the cardboard box in his lap. “Why didn’t she wait? It was a hurricane for crying out loud.”
Olivia shrugged. People had been asking her the same question since her mother was laid in the ground. “Around here, one can grow complacent about storms. They’re such a part of our regular rhythm. Living on the coast, hurricanes and tropical storms are commonplace.” She smiled wanly. “They’re like unwelcome relatives. Sometimes, we don’t give the weather the respect it deserves. This hurricane was only a category two by the time it reached Oyster Bay, and us locals can get pretty cocky about anything under a category three.”
“Not me.” Cosmo paled. “Give me a nice earth tremor anytime!”
“My father understood storms,” Olivia continued as though Cosmo hadn’t spoken. “He tried to stop her. It was the biggest fight they’d ever had! My mother usually listened to him, but she wouldn’t back down this time. The last image I have is of her blowing me a kiss as she ran out to the car.”
Cosmo’s eyes were glistening. “What was the gift? The one she drove through a hurricane to bring you?”
Olivia glanced at Haviland’s image in the rearview mirror. His eyes had been closed, but even in sleep he seemed to sense her need. He lifted his head and met her gaze, as though saying, “I’m right here.”
“It was a puppy,” Olivia answered. “And before you ask, he was on the front seat of my mother’s car when the pole fell. He lived, but I wasn’t allowed to keep him.”
“Why not?” Cosmo was shocked.
“Because he survived,” Olivia whispered.
A silence descended and the passengers listened to the sound of road passing beneath the tires. After a few miles, Olivia said, “I have Haviland now. The finest dog ever born. Not only that, but I believe Michel has packed us another bountiful lunch. Would you mind reaching for the picnic basket? It’s behind my seat.”
Cosmo graciously accepted the change of subject. “I’ll tell you one thing, my dear. If you ever want to open a restaurant in LA, I’ll be your first investor. That shrimp prosciutto risotto Michel made the other night will live on in my dreams.”
“We aim to please,” Olivia replied, pleased by the compliment.
For the rest of the ride, Olivia questioned Cosmo about his decorating ideas for his new client. As he talked, Cosmo distributed the courses of their delectable lunch. The Rover’s occupants dined on curry glazed duck legs, vegetable tortillas, succulent peaches, and truffles until they were satiated.
At the airport, Cosmo insisted Olivia drop him curbside.
“I’d make a scene otherwise,” he told her. The pair embraced next to the Rover.
On the return drive, Olivia thought about what Cosmo’s life would be like during the next few months. She visualized his first days alone. He’d take a cab from the airport and, after a stiff drink or two, fall asleep, too tired for the tears he’d expected to shed. The following morning he wouldn’t want to get out of bed. He’d linger there, replaying memories in his mind. But after a few hours he’d grow bored or hungry or be forced by other physical needs to rise.
Later, he’d open the fridge and smell the milk. It would be sour. The fruit would be spoiled and the cheese tinged with green. Not really hungry, he’d end up making toast with butter and jam just to see what food tasted like. He’d try to concentrate on at least one article in the paper, but reading would be an exercise in futility. He’d throw out the rotten food and take the trash to the street. Eventually, perhaps not until nighttime, he’d go out to the grocery store and empty the mailbox.
The next day he might have cereal because there was milk now. He might eat a banana. The small victory of having replaced the ruined food would be enough to encourage him to shower and, perhaps, to water the plants.
Cosmo would drink too much and talk aloud to Camden for hours on end. When Camden wouldn’t answer, Cosmo would rage and then, his anger spent, he would weep. But each day he’d wake up and eat something. He’d get dressed. He’d drink orange juice without the vodka. One day, he’d finally venture out to his local Starbucks, the dry cleaners, and the outdoor market. He’d open a few letters and return a few calls. He would begin to live again.
“Cosmo will be fine,” Olivia told Haviland. “Give him a year and he’ll be on the cover of every interior design magazine on the rack.”
Haviland looked out the window and whined.
“I’ll miss him too. And Camden. There’s no one like them in Oyster Bay,” she said as she approached the town limit sign. She glanced at the billboard featuring the Ocean Vista Condos and muttered, “Oyster Bay’s changing, Captain. Who knows what our little population will look like in ten years.”
Picturing dozens of Talbot Fine Properties building projects springing up all across town like mushrooms after a long rain made Olivia feel glum. It was Friday evening. Her restaurant would be filled with lively laughter and tantalizing aromas, but she didn’t feel like being there. At home, her unfinished chapter waited for her, but she wasn’t in the mood to write.
She was restless, craving something different. She wanted company—to share a bottle of wine and quiet the tumult of thoughts whirling around in her head.
If only for a short while.
Without being fully conscious of her actions, Olivia parked across the street from Through the Wardrobe. She approached the front door just as Flynn was turning the dead bolt with his key. Seeing her, he smiled.
“You caught me! I’m closing a full hour early.” He gestured at the periwinkle sky. “It’s just too nice a night to be stuck inside.”
Olivia followed his gaze and nodded. “Dry though. I could use a cold drink.”
Flynn studied her face. “I’d love a beer, myself. Where should we go?”<
br />
Hesitating, Olivia wondered if what she planned to say would turn out to be a grave error in judgment. Still, the sultry air and hazy moon convinced her to follow through on her impulse. Shrugging idly, she said, “How about your place?”
Flynn’s Caribbean-style cottage was located on a sleepy street not far from Through the Wardrobe. Olivia and Flynn had shared a few drinks on his back patio. The drinks had led to a kiss, which quickly became heated, but Olivia wasn’t ready to explore anything further with the attractive bookstore owner. Despite Flynn’s coaxing and cajoling in hopes that she would stay a little longer, Olivia firmly said good night a few minutes shy of midnight. Seeing any further attempts at persuasion were futile, Flynn walked her through a jade green living room decorated with murals of tropical fish and waited on the front porch until she was inside her car.
Once she’d pulled away from the curb, Olivia whispered to her poodle, “His decor is wanting, I know.” She laughed, feeling weightless and invigorated.
Olivia spent the remainder of the night in her own bed and woke early, stretching her long limbs languidly beneath her cool, white cotton sheets.
After taking a walk, Olivia finished critiquing Millay’s chapter. She was impressed with the younger woman’s imagination and the unique voice that grew stronger with each page. Having never enjoyed the fantasy genre, Olivia found herself eager to read more of The Gryphon Tamer, though one of her first recommendations was that Millay come up with an alternate title.
Your current title calls to mind a circus performer wearing sequins and brandishing a long whip, she wrote on Millay’s draft. She went on to praise Millay’s use of voice, the success of the suspense created by the opening scene, and her pacing. Olivia’s main criticism was that Millay needed to tone down her use of alliteration and provide more description about the gryphon’s lair.
Overall, an excellent start. You have definitely captured my interest! She scribbled at the end of the chapter. I am curious to discover what happens now that Tessa has been claimed by her gryphon.